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of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment
that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was
it indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of
what passed within the soul? he wondered, and hoped that
some day he would see the change taking place before his
very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.
Poor Sibyl! what a romance it had all been! She had often
mimicked death on the stage, and at last Death himself had
touched her, and brought her with him. How had she played
that dreadful scene? Had she cursed him, as she died? No;
she had died for love of him, and love would always be a sac-
rament to him now. She had atoned for everything, by the
sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any
more of what she had made him go through, that horrible
night at the theatre. When he thought of her, it would be as
a wonderful tragic figure to show Love had been a great re-
ality. A wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he
remembered her child-like look and winsome fanciful ways
and shy tremulous grace. He wiped them away hastily, and
looked again at the picture.
He felt that the time had really come for making his
choice. Or had his choice already been made? Yes, life had
decided that for him,— life, and his own infinite curiosity
about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures sub-
tle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins,—he was to have
all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his
shame: that was all.
A feeling of pain came over him as he thought of the
desecration that was in store for the fair face on the can-